“You may call it war. We of the South call it the unholy attempt to subjugate freemen—to destroy the sovereignty of the States. But Abe Lincoln with all his vandal horde will never conquer the South!”
“Well, stick to your State's rights, old man; but in the meantime we must have corn for our horses to brace them up so's we can ride into Richmond and hang old Jeff Davis——”
“Jeff Davis! He's a saint, sir, when compared with your negro-loving railsplitter in the White House!”
“All right; I don't propose to quarrel with you. Please show us where the corn can be found.”
“Never, sir! If you will plunder my plantation I am powerless to defend myself; but I'll not help you to anything.”
“Then we'll prospect on our own hook. Perhaps we can find what we want.”
“I protest in the name of the sovereign rights of a Virginian.”
“Uncle Sam's a bigger man than 'ole Virginny,'” replied the sergeant.
We had no difficulty in finding the corn crib and the old Virginian's commissary department. A young darky “let the cat out of the bag” on his master, and we soon had our horses loaded with forage. We had struck it rich, indeed, for the plantation yielded “corn, wine and oil” in abundance. There was food for man and beast. A large number of hams, cured on the plantation, sides and sides of bacon, and a goodly store of “groceries” were among the “forage” we confiscated. But we did not strip the planter of all his provisions; enough was left to run him for several months.
“I'll give you a receipt for this forage,” said the sergeant, as we were about to leave.